


Fast Times

by songlin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 666 Fics, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:57:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: Crowley is in one of his favorite spots on the planet: between Aziraphale’s thighs in the backseat of the Bentley.





	Fast Times

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. It's me, gleefully back on my Good Omens bullshit. Watch this space.
> 
> This was a fun little challenge! 666 words is a neat length. Forces you to be brief, but you can do a fair amount within it. I tried to write the sort of section of a 2k or so fic that you ctrl+F to find when you're rereading. Skip the setup and the foreplay, right to the most intense bit.

Angels are supposed to worship the Lord above all else. Demons, for their part, are not supposed to worship anything at all. They are supposed to owe all allegiance to their Master Lucifer.

As it turns out, either of them will drop their higher callings in a second to worship and serve each other.

"Oh, my dove," Aziraphale sighs, combing his fingers through Crowley’s already mussed hair.

Crowley is in one of his favorite spots on the planet: between Aziraphale’s thighs in the backseat of the Bentley, which has miraculously expanded to the approximate size of a queen size bed. His mouth is wrapped around the angel’s cock as he demonstrates the many novel uses of his very dexterous tongue. Additionally, he has three fingers inside himself where Aziraphale had gently, slowly, opened him up, murmuring sweet endearments the whole time as Crowley shook and whined.

And damn him, Aziraphale is  _ still _ talking.

"My love, my fair one," he says. "You are so good to me. I would give you anything you desire."

"You, you, only you," is what Crowley would say if his mouth were not otherwise occupied. Instead, he sucks at the tip of Aziraphale’s cock, cupping it with his tongue. Aziraphale lets out a very gratifying "oh!" and tugs at his handful of Crowley’s hair.

"I want to make you feel the way I feel." Aziraphale's voice is soft and breathless. "I want to be one, to knit my soul to yours."

Crowley’s cock, flushed and weeping and rock hard between his legs, jumps as Crowley curls his fingers just so. Aziraphale during sex is the way he is at all other times: open, and earnest, and overflowing with love. To a demon brought up on spit and vitriol, it’s intoxicating.

Crowley is quite sure that to an angel, the sort of sex tricks learned by a demon over six millenia have much the same effect. He relaxes his jaw and performs one of those tricks by taking Aziraphale’s cock down his throat, then shows off his lack of need for oxygen by letting Aziraphale slowly, gently fuck his face.

The slow slide of Aziraphale’s prick in and out of Crowley’s throat is almost overwhelming. His eyes water up and overflow. He flicks them up to Aziraphale’s and finds that Aziraphale is looking down at him, which sends such a powerful jolt of lust through him that his hips jerk of their own accord.

"Crowley," Aziraphale sighs, combing his fingers through the demon’s hair and pushing his cock in so far that Crowley chokes. "What a marvelous lover you are. You bless me. I am blessed."

What an honor it is, for Crowley to be so lucky as to make this being feel blessed.

He is grinding down on his hand, cock still ludicrously untouched, about to scream from the input. He is stuffed full. He wants more. He is a demon, and greed, lust, and gluttony are all virtues to him.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale cries. "I want you so. I want to feel you tremble around me as you reach your crisis."

As much as he hates to admit it, the old-fashioned language really does it for Crowley. It makes him think of Aziraphale in the nineteenth century. Crowley spent much of the nineteenth century having illicit fantasies about Aziraphale rodgering him over his ludicrous red velvet chaise. The mere thought of it makes his prick throb.

"Crowley. Oh, my love. Oh please, I want to know you, I want you to know me. Oh, please. I love you, I love—"

Aziraphale’s orgasm takes them both by surprise. Crowley gags a little swallowing it. When he comes, Aziraphale loses his words entirely and is all twitching limbs and incoherent cries. Crowley closes his eyes and takes it, and takes it, and takes it.

Crowley crawls up Aziraphale’s body and straddles the angel’s thighs, his prick bobbing enticingly.

"About that knowing me," he says hoarsely. "How soon are you ready to go again?"


End file.
